Hold Me Steady
by RougeaufSherlock
Summary: A Dark!Balletlock Fic. Rated because of implied sexual activities,graphic depictions of violence, and maybe actual sexual activities later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Hold Me Steady**

**Chapter 1**

As long as he could remember, John Watson had a fascination with the male figure, and he was happy to say the man lying next to him allowed him to explore it all he wished. He loved the way Sherlock moved. He loved his tall, thin frame, the lines and crevices so neatly patterned onto his skin. The V dipping down to his pride. He rested his head tenderly onto Sherlock's chest, running a finger over his bare nipple. It hardened to the touch.

"Are you nervous?" asked John.

"Just one opening and fifty skilled men fighting for it. I'd say the odds are in my favor, considering the competition."

"I know what you're capable of. There is no man more deserving for that spot than you."

Sherlock held his lips to the top of John's head, gently sucking in the scent of dried sweat and remnants of shampoo. He smelled sweet, like fresh picked apples cut near a gentle stream.

"I know you'll be thinking of me."

John smiled, closing his eyes. A hint of morning sun peeked in through the curtains, a reminder of their time left before Sherlock's audition. John was caught in a comfortable moment, with atmosphere and company he did not want to leave the hands of. Sherlock however, was driven, his mind focused on succeeding. He patted John's head, running his fingers through his hair.

"We should get to the studio."

John groaned. "So soon?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Come on. The audition is in three hours." John rolled off of Sherlock and sat up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Sherlock was already standing, covering up in his blue robe. He kept his eye on his costume hanging in the closet and breathed a controlled sigh. He'd prepared for this day. He'd sized himself up against some of the potential competition. Enough challenge to keep him interested, nothing he could not handle, but nerves still tugged at him deep down inside.

John stood behind him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and folding his hands on front of his waist. He kissed him on the side of his neck.

"You'll get it. I've never seen a man so talented."

Sherlock smiled and brushed John away. "I'm going to shower. I need some time to think."

"I'll make breakfast."

"That sounds wonderful."

* * *

Sherlock pulled his razor from the medicine cabinet and stared blankly into the mirror, eyeing his stubble. The enemy. He imagined his upcoming performance, one he had practiced for months perfecting. He chipped away at the stubble with the blade. He thought of how easily he could slip up. A fall, or one foot out of line. His eye for precision failing him. Fears that accumulated within him for a long time. They spilled out and overcame Sherlock's confidence in the wake of the upcoming audition.

The stinging on Sherlock's chin pulled him out of his trance. The blade had sliced into him. A few drops of blood fell into the sink. Sherlock stared at the cut on his face,an indication of an unsteady hand, his body turning on him. He needed precision, and feared he was losing it to his growing anxiety. His body could not fail him. Not today.

He put a washcloth to his cut. Would it be worth it to put himself out there today? Would it be worth it to fail?

* * *

John put some scrambled eggs onto Sherlock's plate and poured him some coffee.

"Bit of a slip up, huh?" he asked, regarding the patch on Sherlock's chin. Sherlock would not remove his eyes from the plate.

"Is everything all right?" John inquired.

Sherlock clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "I can't do this, John."

John stopped cold.

"Yes you can Sherlock. You know the routine back and forth now-"

"-I'm not ready!" Sherlock's voice resonated, commanding the room. He calmed himself "Look at me, my body falling victim to doubt. I can't make a fool of myself in there."

John took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. "Listen to me, Sherlock. You are going to audition today. I've watched hundreds of men try to do what you do on that floor, and _nobody _has the skill and determination I've seen in you. You are not a quitter, and if you think I'm going to let you quit because you're afraid of failing, then you've got another thing coming. Now eat, finish getting ready, and we are going to the studio. You are auditioning today, and even if you don't get the part, you will be no less of a man."

Sherlock pounded his fist onto the table, spilling coffee from his mug. "John have you seen me lately? Look. Really look. I'm a mess! I"ll just fail myself."

John glared. "Sherlock, the only way you fail is if you give up. You know its all in your head."

Sherlock glared back at John. They fought each other with piercing stares, but underneath it all, they both knew John was in the right. Sherlock slowly came to terms with it, and retreated.

"Fine," he mumbled.

John grinned. "Well hurry up then! No time to waste."


	2. Chapter 2

***Author's Note**: Enjoy a bearded man playing the music mentioned in this chapter. (on youtube) /watch?v=S6yuR8efotI *

Thanks to Clara (Valkyrie Of The Dead) for Beta-ing this chapter!

**Hold Me Steady**

**Chapter 2**

The cab ride was a tense sort of silent, and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between John and Sherlock to forget the events of the morning. Sherlock had overreacted. It was not the first time. He tended to react violently to doubt as it was rare and startling for him to feel. He was defined by his confidence, arrogance even, and when it faltered, Sherlock often went mad. John took it upon himself to ground him. To hold him steady again.

Sherlock did not dress dapper as usual. He got out of the cab wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, the band folded loosely around his waist and a blue tank top tucked underneath. There was no need to be in costume so early before the audition.

The studio was tall, white, and elegant from the outside. High columns separated the pyramidal roof from the ground, and opened up to several glass entrances. They knew every inch of it, inside and out, but today upon entering the building, it was barely recognizable. It wasn't their dance studio anymore, rather a stale waiting room full of strange faces.

Sherlock dropped his bag to the ground, his black ballet flats peeking out from the top. Auditions would begin in one hour, and would be held in a private room before a panel of judges, including the director, choreographer, and coach of the team.

John walked off to scan the competition while Sherlock began stretching. His mind wanted to drift toward his own doubt and apprehensions, but he steered it away, focusing on thoroughly stretching every muscle of significance to his performance. He started with simple stretches like reaching for the bottom of his feet or holding a bar and swinging his legs side-to-side. Then he moved to the more complicated portion of his routine. He kicked his foot high above his head, and holding his position, bent backwards, hands pressing to the floor, his raised foot holding a perfect point at the toe. He continued working through his routine while John was away.

John scanned the room. It was the densest by the mirrors, dancers all fighting for a spot to watch themselves as they warmed up. Many came with their partners or friends, some sort of support, just like John was to Sherlock. John noted astounding talent from most of the dancers whether they were practicing portions of their routines or even just stretching. He expected it from the fifty finalists.

He returned shortly after Sherlock finished stretching.

"My muscles are still a bit tense, John. Would you mind?" Sherlock rubbed at his neck.

John licked his lips and gave a hungry smile. "Not at all."

Sherlock removed his top and rolled up his sweatpants revealing his calves, and lay on his stomach, resting his head on his forearms. John knelt down and pressed into in muscles, massaging them, squeezing out any knots in his back or in his legs. Both found it relaxing, and John of course would not pass up a chance to press his hands into Sherlock's cool skin. It was an odd display for a public area, but they certainly weren't the only ones, and very few people seemed to be focusing on anyone but themselves that day regardless.

"It looks like some tough competition," warned John, rolling his palms into Sherlock shoulder blade.

"Really." Said Sherlock. "Should be interesting then."

Sherlock liked competition. It made his auditions more challenging, more thrilling. It was not his competitors that caused the occasional nervous ball in his stomach, rather his own doubts about himself. His competitors gave him something to look forward to.

They drifted off into their own world, and did not notice the man deep within the crowd who never took his eyes off of them.

* * *

Time passed quickly, and soon a cheery woman's voice broke through the loud rumbling of voices through a speaker.

"Attention dancers! The order of your auditions will now be posted. Pay careful attention to your number and be ready immediately when it is called. As a reminder: Auditions may be no longer than three minutes. You will only have one attempt regardless of the circumstances. You may leave immediately after your performance, and the winner will receive a letter in no more than two weeks. Best of luck!"

A sandy sheet of paper was posted to the wall just outside the hall that lead to the separate audition room. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John continued rolling his hands over his muscles. The crowd of men flocked to the bohemian paper.

"Look at them, John. They're all so eager."

"And you're not?"

"There is no need to rush. They'll clear away soon enough."

John pressed into Sherlock's lower back. "I'm not even sure you need this anymore." He slid his hands to middle of his back. "I have a feeling you're milking it at this point."

Sherlock chuckled and pushed himself up from the ground. John stood up and leaned against the wall, massaging his own hands. "Knew it," he said.

Only a small crowd lingered around the list. Sherlock leaned back against the wall. "John, check the list for me. I assume I'm one of the last to go, judging by the number of people relative to their expressions." He seemed bored.

John scoffed. "It's right there, Sherlock. You're perfectly capable of checking it yourself."

"I'd rather not expend the energy."

John sighed, knowing a hopeless case. He shoved through the crowd and ran this thumb down the list.

"#50: Sherlock Holmes." The very last audition.

* * *

"Audition number one!" called a man through the speaker. The first half hour of auditions passed quickly, the next was a bit tedious. The second hour was the hardest to wait through. It was too soon to begin the second set of warm ups, and much too long before Sherlock's audition. He sat down, leaning back against the wall, holding his palms together, fingers to his chin. John sat beside him, noting how the different men moved. Sherlock rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"There's a lot of talent here," said John.

Sherlock looked bored. "A fair few. Most of them are average."

"Most people seem average compared to you," John said. Sherlock bent to the side and pecked John on the cheek, taking the compliment before he finished speaking. "It doesn't mean they're not good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was when John noticed something peculiar that dragged his attention away.

Beginning into the third hour of auditions, Sherlock had all but disappeared from the studio. He had not moved physically moved, but mentally he had checked out and entered what he called his "Mind Palace." It was his safe haven, his own palace in the back of his head where he could envision each move, each pose, each position, as if it were playing out in fine detail directly in front of him.

His beginning position: perfectly poised, still, unmoving. Sherlock had chosen the prelude Bach's Cello Suite No.1 to perform to. The cello begins to play and he awakes, spinning elegantly across the floor to turn into a plié. A step for momentum turns into a pirouette, slowly coming to a halt as he lifts his leg high in the air for his arabesque, his back and neck arching softly. His foot lowers back to the floor and he transitions into a leap: a grand jete. When he dances, he forgets his apprehensions. When he dances, nothing else matters but the pure feeling and adrenaline of the moment.

An elbow jabbing into his side pulled him out of his thoughts. John seemed genuinely concerned.

"Sherlock, that man has been staring at you for a very long time," said John. The room came back into focus. Six dancers were left, waiting for their turns. The man of John's mention easily caught Sherlock's eye. He was of average height, rugged, confident. He held himself in an upright posture as if he once belonged to the military.

"He hasn't taken his eyes off of you for as long as I've seen him." Said John.

The man sparked Sherlock's curiosity and succeeded at drawing on his focus. He wore tights, he was clearly there to audition, but he seemed out of place.

He caught Sherlock staring and smiled, raising his hand in greeting. His smile was not friendly however. It was like ice. Sherlock raised his head, meeting him with his own icy stare.

"He's trying to intimidate me." Said Sherlock quickly. "Just ignore him."

He had not completely ruled out the idea that the man could have been up to something along the lines of cheating, but intimidation seemed more plausible. A cheating man would avoid drawing attention to himself, thus avoiding suspicions.

Sherlock and John turned away from the strange man, Sherlock focusing on stretching, focusing on strategy. He was able to remove his focus completely from the man, but John still felt his icy smile over his shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock was one of three dancers left. The rugged man and a meaty black-haired man stood waiting by the door to the room. Sherlock had changed into his tights while John had left to find some water. Sherlock waited for him, now in line at the door, when John returned.

"You look nervous," whispered John, handing Sherlock a cold water bottle. Sherlock took a measly sip and shook his head.

"I'm fine. Just focusing." He tried to ignore his lightly shaking hands.

A young man with bleach-blond hair walked out of the audition room, looking confident.

"Audition 48!" a man's voice called from inside the room. The black haired man kissed his partner on the cheek and entered, closing the door behind him. The woman walked off, leaving Sherlock and John alone with the presently nameless man. He seemed to stop caring about Sherlock and John, and instead looked down, apparently interested in his fingernails.

Three minutes passed quickly. The black haired main exited the room.

"Audition 49!"

The rugged man gave a smug grin to his fingers and turned into the room, eyeing John and Sherlock on his way in. John was curious, and pressed his ear to the wall, listening for anything strange: the same music as Sherlock's or conspiring with the judges, but the walls were soundproof. It was impossible to hear what was happening on the inside. He sighed and lowered his head, only to notice Sherlock's nervously strumming fingers.

The door opened. The man came out grinning.

"Good luck," he said to sarcastically to Sherlock. Sherlock seemed unfazed. He acted as if he hadn't heard him. He stayed focused on whatever was going on inside his own head.

"Audition 50!"

Sherlock took a deep breath. John pulled him down to an even level with his head, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "You'll be great."

With a quick nod and an unconvincing smile, Sherlock closed the door behind him.

* * *

As he walked in, a beady eyed man stared at him from the center of the judges' table with a cynical smile, and a row of judges on either side of him just stared blankly. Sherlock saw the trick immediately. A panel of the dead with their self-proclaimed god standing among them. Sherlock turned away as soon as he stepped in, but he never made it out. Three men jumped at him from the ceiling, and knocking him forcibly to the ground, gagging him, then binding him to a cold metal chair against the wall with coarse rope.

The beady eyed man walked forward. Sherlock looked up at him with disdain. He did not struggle loudly, but discreetly twisted at his restraints so not to draw too much attention. They burned his skin.

"So," started the man. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes. I'm a big fan. I've watched all of your performances." He had a childish tone to his voice. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Do you like my little set up here? Did I fool you for a moment?"

The ropes dug into Sherlock's skin as he tried to twist out. His wrists were raw..

"Name's Jim Moriarty, by the way." He extended a hand in his sort of humour. "Hi!"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits, threatening him. He pulled his hand away, grinning.

"Do you know why you're here, Sherlock?" He walked behind, pressing his hand into Sherlock's curls, and whispered into his ear. "I like to watch you dance." He grinned.

The men who had tied Sherlock down advanced toward him. Jim Moriarty stepped away and folded his hands behind his back. Sherlock struggled harder in his ropes, making no efforts to hide it any more.

"I want you to dance for me," he continued.

Sherlock's eyes widened in fear as the men closed the gap.

"Don't mind them," said Jim. "I don't like to get my hands dirty."

* * *

John waited out in the hall, excitedly anticipating Sherlock's emergence from the audition. He was relieved that the strange man had left, still John was curious as to his identity. He thumbed down the list of auditions posted outside the door, knowing his name would be listed directly above Sherlock's.

#49: Sebastian Moran. John punched the name into his mobile phone, noting it for later, and leaned back against the wall.

The three allotted minutes of Sherlock's audition passed quickly, but soon rolled over into four minutes, then five. Five more minutes passed by, this time much more slowly. Ten minutes turned to fifteen. Something was wrong. John heavily considered checking the room. Fifteen turned to twenty.

Sebastian Moran's earlier presence had John further on edge about the situation. John was concerned his actions may have been darker than he initially believed. Even if Sherlock's routine was tampered with, he would be out by now. John suddenly felt cold. The hall resonated with ominous silence. He placed his hand on the knob and drew in a deep, foreboding breath.

The door clicked open. "Sherlock?" he called as the pushed into the room.

His face dropped in horror. A row of men and women were slouched in their chairs at the judges table. To the side of him, an empty silver chair with a bloodstained cloth hanging over the top. The room was warm, and it reeked of blood and decay. Wind blew in from the side window and a sheet of paper skated across the table. John cautiously walked forward, minding the dead. He caught the sheet in his hands. It was Sherlock's audition form. There were no notes on it, no scores, but something was scribbled onto the back.

_He dances for me now. :)_

_He'll dance for me forever._

_~JM_


	3. Chapter 3

***NOTE**!: There is a **graphic gory-ish scene** in this chapter. I don't think it's too bad, but **I've sectioned it off and marked it with a "1**." You won't miss out on too much by skipping over it. It will be the only "gore-ish" scene in this fic.*

_The Thieving Magpie_ (on youtube): watch?v=nBkkDzdJ4-0 (Played in Sherlock S2E3 "The Reichenbach Fall")

Thanks to Tumblr user steadyfootsteps for beta-ing!

* * *

**Hold Me Steady**

**Chapter 3**

Jim Moriarty drew a deep breath and rested the curve of his foot beside his knee, propelling himself into a steady pirouette. His black ballet tights and flats complemented his fair complexion and dark, short hair.

He kept his back straight and lowered himself slowly, breathing out, and extended his foot in front of him so that it glided over the floor in his spin. His arms were gently curved in front of him. Turning three times in that position, he carefully raised himself back up and spread his arms to their respective sides. He froze to observe his final position in the mirror. He was poised neatly, arms spread gracefully.

_Perfect._

His concentration was disrupted by a low groan behind him. He moved back into standing position and waited, knowing his captive would soon be awake.

The back of Sherlock's head pulsed as if it had its own heartbeat. It felt like a mallet pounding rhythmically on tender skin. The room was notably dark when he opened his eyes. There were only a few scattered lights allowing him to see a short distance ahead. He blinked a few times to focus his eyes and found his captor standing a few feet in front of him, looking at the mirror, perfectly at ease.

"Finally awake, are we?" He had an animated way of speaking. "Took you long enough. Daddy was getting borrrred," Moriarty rolled back on his feet.

Sherlock stood up rather ungracefully. He was a bit light-headed and had to concentrate on maintaining his balance. "So what?" he asked, steadying himself. "You've got me here. How do you intend to make me stay?"

Jim Moriarty turned around and looked to a heavy door at the corner of the room. "If you can find your way out of there, be my guest. But I wouldn't try just yet." He began pacing the room and pointed to an ill-lit corner. Sherlock could see a scant outline of another person. "You see, Sherlock, that woman has special orders. Shoot to maim. And I should warn you, she never misses her target. So you can escape from this room, but you won't go too far. I can guarantee that." A hint of worry momentarily flicked over Sherlock's otherwise callous expression. "And you'll still dance for me regardless," Moriarty continued, "So do yourself a favor, and _sit still_."

Sherlock stiffened his posture and looked down with cold eyes upon Moriarty, who was considerably shorter.

"Good," said Moriarty. "Now let's begin, shall we?" He bowed and offered his hand to Sherlock: an invitation to dance. Sherlock scowled, but Jim held his position. "Word of advice," he shifted his eyes to the corner of the room where the woman waited in darkness. "Do as I say."

Sherlock held his tongue. He had not completely regained his strength, but he mustered what he could. He took Moriarty's hand. It was cold and slippery, and the touch made him shiver. A song Sherlock recognized as The Thieving Magpie began playing, and Moriarty raised his head.

"I hear you can perform a near-flawless routine on the spot."

Sherlock popped a quick and unenthusiastic smile in response. "Pay careful attention," he said, pulling Moriarty into the dance.

* * *

John barely slept the night of the incident, and the moment he awoke, everything seemed the same, and simultaneously different. The flat was untouched from the day before, but it felt ghostly. Unwashed pans in the sink, the chair pulled out at the table where Sherlock sat. John looked at them as a reminder that _he_ forced Sherlock to audition. How different the circumstances would be had he just respected Sherlock's wishes. His stomach clenched and twisted, and he looked away.

A faded smear of blood stained the white bathroom sink. Sherlock's razor sat over a similarly white wash-cloth.

Little reminders all over the flat.

The sounds of the shower drowned out the sounds of the rain. Though it was not much different, John preferred the sound of the rain. A reminder that life goes on. Here, it was isolated, and there was nothing but the chaos of crowded thoughts and stale water drops. He recalled DI Lestrade's not-so-comforting words as the water beat over his skin.

"We'll find him John. We'll bring Sherlock back safely. I promise."

John wished he could believe it, but Lestrade's well-rehearsed words did nothing but add more grief. When Sherlock wasn't dancing, he often aided the police in solving crimes. Though not completely useless, John knew they were quite unreliable without him. He doubted they would be able to find Sherlock, especially in the wake of a criminal skilled enough to successfully kidnap him.

He ran a towel through his hair and pulled on his clothes. As guilty as John felt, his determination was ten-fold. The flat was too empty, and he couldn't bear the uncertainty of Sherlock's situation. But he had learned well from Sherlock. He understood his methods, and he considered himself the most capable man to find him again. He promised himself that he would, no matter what it cost him.

After a quick breakfast, John stuffed his gun into his jacket pocket and quietly stepped out of the flat. The street was deserted. Everyone liked to stay inside on a rainy day. He turned up his collar and waved for the cab driving up the street, but was interrupted by a phone call. Much to his frustration, the cab passed him by as he fished out his phone. After some struggle he finally found it. "D.I. Lestrade" popped up on caller ID.

John picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi, John? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Yes, I know." John waved for another cab, but this one passed him as well. He slapped his hand down angrily.

"Look, I've got some bad news," said Lestrade. "Sebastian Moran is not showing up in our system."

John looked down. "It wasn't his real name then…"

"I'm afraid not. We've brought in a few people that fit the description though, if you'd be willing to come down and have a look yourself."

John guessed his plans could wait. "I'll be right there," he sighed.

"Fantastic! Oh, and one more thing."

John was getting impatient. "Yes?" But before he got his answer, the phone connection clicked off. "Hello?" He shook his head and tried calling again. It went straight to voicemail.

Another cab drove up. "Taxi!" he called, but again, it passed by, never even slowing.

The screen on John's phone lit up, the blip indicated a new text. Restricted number.

_"The next cab is yours."_

But the cab that pulled up wasn't a cab at all. It was an all-too familiar black car. Though the windows were heavily tinted, he knew what, or rather who, awaited him

_Mycroft._

* * *

They met in an abandoned car garage. Mycroft held a folder under his arm and kindly welcomed John in.

"John Watson. How have you been?"

"Fine," John said curtly. Mycroft smiled tightly, dismissing John's lie.

"I assume you know why you're here today."

John nodded.

"Good." Mycroft opened up the folder. "We know the man behind this crime. Well, we have a decent profile on him anyway."

John shifted.

"His name is James Moriarty. Notorious criminal. A dangerous crime-boss who appears to have a grip over the whole of Europe. Very intelligent man, enough to rival even my brother." He handed John the folder. He flipped through it.

_Bank Robberies_

_Murders_

_Fraud_

_Tampering with Government Plans_

The list continued in more detail.

"He doesn't carry out the crimes himself, rather organizes them from behind the scenes. However, it would appear he has committed a few murders of his own recently."

John continued thumbing through the few pages in the folder, and something caught his eye.

"_Prolonged physical and psychological torture preceding murder."_

The letter from the previous day crossed John's mind.

"_He dances for me now. __He'll dance for me forever."_

Mycroft noticed his horrified expression and lowered his head. "He preys on their fears, their passions, anything. I won't tell you what he's done to some of his victims."

"I don't think I want to know," said John, shaking his head against unwanted thoughts. He handed the folder back to Mycroft. "Why does he want Sherlock, though? What does Sherlock have to do with anything?"

"That's an interesting tale. You see, he and my brother rival each other in more ways than one. It would appear that James Moriarty also has a history of ballet. He was considered the best of the best. That is, until Sherlock was recognized. He's has been in Moriarty's way ever since, consistently taking leading roles, as you know all about, roles that Moriarty envied. Though it's difficult to pinpoint his exact motives, it is most likely because ballet, in addition to toppling majority of his crimes, Sherlock is not someone James Moriarty is very fond of."

It was all too much. "Is there something you need from me? Anything I can do?" John asked.

"Oh yes," said Mycroft. "That's why you're here. With your cooperation, there is a chance we may find both Sherlock _and _Moriarty before he can do too much damage."

John's stomach twisted at the thought. "What do you need?"

Mycroft smiled. "No doubt you understand the significance of my brother's affections toward you." There was slight resentment in his tone. "We believe Moriarty will use that to his advantage. He'll want you as a pawn in his… _game, _if you will."

John thought back to Sherlock's reservations about becoming public with their relationship. He feared it would put John in danger, and now here he was. "So what? He's going to come after me too?"

"Yes. And that's how we're going to find him."

A woman walked out from a door in the back of the garage, carrying a rather thick syringe.

"I assume you're comfortable with injections, John."

He pulled himself away as she reached for his arm. "What are you doing?" he demanded. She pushed the thick metal rod into his skin, causing a sharp, searing pain which he gritted his teeth against.

"Moriarty will likely have his hands on you within the next week, and with this, we can track where they take you. We'll keep you safe, don't worry, and hopefully this will lead us in the right direction."

John's arm was uncomfortable with the miniature chip now pressing against the inside of his skin. He rubbed the tender area. "Don't fret. It's easy to remove," said Mycroft.

"You _will _remove it, correct?"

"Of course."

"So, you want me to be captured by this… Moriarty?" John clarified. Mycroft nodded.

"And you're sure it will work?"

"We'll do everything we can."

His words were not reassuring, but there _was_ a chance they could find Sherlock, and John would do anything to make the possibility a reality. He would risk his own safety, even his life to be sure that he was safe. He strongly objected to being under constant government surveillance, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Sherlock.

There was a long moment of silence where John and Mycroft just shifted about, when John quickly remembered he needed to be at the station to help Lestrade.

"Are we done here?" he asked. "I need to be at Scotland Yard."

"You're free to leave. We'll be keeping watch."

John turned away quickly. "Yeah. Thanks," he said bitterly. But an idea came to him as he was walking away. He turned back to Mycroft.

"By the way, do you know anything about someone named Sebastian Moran, by any chance? He looked ex-military, seemed like he was working with Moriarty...?"

There was a new spark of hope in Mycroft's eyes, though only for a moment.

"Not off the top of my head, but we will research him." He smiled in a dismissive way. "Thank you, John."

And with that, it appeared that their conversation was over, and John left with a new thread of hope, though it was small and weak.

A cab waited for him outside. The sounds and sights of rain, the empty seat next to him, and the dead streets all created an exceptionally somber mood. He sank into his seat. He fell into a world of grey and the world turned much too slowly. Maybe they _could_ find Sherlock, but how much time did he have?

_God Sherlock. What's going to happen to you?_

* * *

Sherlock and Moriarty's dance was a competition of skill, and Moriarty proved himself to be just as skilled as Sherlock. The tension was high for the entirety of the song. Sherlock turned into a plié and Moriarty jumped into a grand jete. Moriarty spun into a pirouette and Sherlock danced unwavering en pointe. Who had greater stamina? Who could perform the higher jumps? Sherlock kept a judgmental eye on Moriarty the entire performance. Moriarty grinned throughout the dance as if it were all a joke.

The song reached its finale. Sherlock and Moriarty fixed their eyes on each other. Heavy breathing, sweat dripping down their foreheads. The air was electric. Their movements became increasingly intricate as each tried to out-compete the other and finally, the song concluded, and they took their bows.

Sherlock was the first to straighten his posture. He was proud, believing he successfully out-competed Moriarty. He kept his eyes trained on him, trying to predict his next move.

"That was good. Very good," said Moriarty, straightening his back and shoulders. "We're going to have lots of fun, you and I." Sherlock caught the gleam in his eye, the conniving look flicker across his face.

"Okay boys!" Moriarty called. It happened very quickly. The sound of a light whip through the air and a metal pin buried itself into Sherlock's arm. He immediately felt the effects. His vision blurred, his muscles weakened to the point where he could no longer hold himself up, and he dropped to the ground. But the drug was not enough to render him unconscious, just weak and drowsy. Two large men appeared from seemingly nowhere and lifted Sherlock up. He was too weak to struggle, and his muscles were failing him phenomenally. There was a tight pressure where they held his arms, and Sherlock could feel bruises blooming all across his skin. He noticed Moriarty sending out a text as it happened.

"Have I got a surprise for you, Sherlock." said Moriarty. He seemed much too excited. The door creaked open and a man with a long face and proportionately long nose entered the room carrying, with some difficulty, two large golden wings with huge silver hooks at their bases. Sherlock could not see him, but he soon felt his sticky breath at his neck.

The man ran his finger softly across the hook before pressing it over the point.

"You're insane." breathed Sherlock, struggling for any strength he could find.

Moriarty walked forward and lifted Sherlock's chin.

"Hush now. I see heavenly performances in your future, and I think a nice set of wings would suit you well, don't you agree?"

Sherlock snarled, but Moriarty was not intimidated. He backed away slowly, grinning, as Sherlock felt the first prick of the hook's dull point just behind his shoulder.

"Just relax," whispered the man behind Sherlock. "This won't hurt a bit."

**_1._**

* * *

Moriarty pushed a button on his phone and joyful sounds of "The Thieving Magpie" again filled the room, but this time, it was more sinister. He smiled blissfully and swayed to the song. There was a muted pop as the point of the hook penetrated Sherlock's skin. The cold metal slowly wriggled in and curved upward. It dug into muscle and scraped over bone, then once the hook was in, it begged for its exit. The point pressed again into Sherlock from the inside, but the exit was more difficult, and it scraped and teared and pushed out on the skin. The hot pressure made Sherlock's already weak knees buckle. He gritted his teeth. Heavy pools of wetness spilled from his eyes. With another pop and a ripping tear, the point came out above. Deep red gushed from the throbbing wounds. Sherlock's eyes were prickling with tears, but he somehow managed not to scream. It may have been because he couldn't muster the voice to do it.

The long faced man ran his fingers over the fresh wounds and pressed the sore and tender broken flesh into the quickly warming metal. Sherlock whimpered. He wanted to collapse, but the two men held him more tightly, and he was forced to endure.

* * *

As the dull point of the second hook began to penetrate his skin, Sherlock lost consciousness.

* * *

Sherlock had long since awoken on a steel table in a tiny concrete room. He could feel the blood crusted over his skin. The wings were heavy on his aching back, and he was hardly able to move. Even the slightest movement shot heart-stopping pain over his entire body, especially where the wings were hooked into him.

A stream of dim light shone in from the door behind him, suddenly shaded. "He wants you to rest." said a female's voice. Sherlock lay stiff, refusing to turn around to see who was talking to him.

"He says you'll need more strength for your performance tomorrow."

He was suddenly shadowed with dread that seemed to sprout from her words.

Her voice quickly turned kinder, more sympathetic. "But do rest if you can," she said. Then she turned heel and walked away.

Sherlock took her advice easily. Not because he wanted to, but because he could not fight the sleep that was closing in. He started to imagine things. Imagine John.

He imagined his smile, his soft touch, his smooth voice: "Keep fighting, Sherlock. Get out of there. Be strong."

"_Be strong," _Sherlock repeated, giving in to his heavy eyelids._  
_

But the sudden creaking of the door drew him slightly back into consciousness. Slow footsteps, tapping of expensive shoes.

"What do you want?" groaned Sherlock.

Moriarty put a cold hand to Sherlock's wet forehead. "I'm disappointed," he said. "Not strong enough to withstand such a tiny prick? Nonetheless, you've earned your wings."

He pushed in on one of the giant hooks. Sherlock squirmed and tried to hold back the pained noise bubbling in his throat.

"It's okay, my little angel, I'm not mad," said Moriarty. "We'll just pick up tomorrow."

The sound of his footsteps told Sherlock Moriarty was leaving again. "But don't plan to escape, Sherlock. You're trapped here. "

The door creaked. "And you'll dance for me whether you want to or not." His words turned melodic. "You'll dance for me _everyday_ until you _die_."

_Shut and lock._

"And then I'll clip those pretty wings."


End file.
